Without
by JoyfulSerenity
Summary: David returned from a war in a faraway land only to fight one inside his own mind. In the beginning, Julia had felt like a way to help him heal, but now, as he begs for her heart to beat again, he finds himself more destroyed than ever before.
1. Ashes

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N:Some lines have been taken directly from episode 3. I tried to keep it as close to canon as possible. I know this is a small fandom, but reviews and kudos would absolutely make my day, if you feel so inclined. I'm just grateful for the hits!**

**Enjoy!  
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The war seasoned me to death, to the destruction of others. To wounds, to blood. I'd watched it spill from my abdomen, my sides, shrapnel having pierced my flesh. I'd felt the unwelcome fuzziness of black seeping into my vision, stealing away my consciousness. I'd seen the distorted color of my hands, my fingers spotted with purple beneath the drying red as I fought for life.

There had been mosaics of flesh, stripped from bones that would never walk again. A body that would never breathe. Blood distorted by the sand beneath us, each grain soaking up the crimson. It left a tale of who we had been, what we had done only until the afternoon wind swept it away to be forgotten along with the corpses that had been created there.

My own skin was puckered, having been torn then pulled tight by stitches, by time. Then there were the scars no one could see, not even myself. Ones that ensnared every thought, permeated every desire, every ambition.

They had turned me into a machine, devoid of thought until that's all there was left. I tried to push these things away, tried to make civilian life bearable, tried to be the normal person, husband, _father,_ that I'd been before, but that person had been left in Afghanistan. Only the shell of me had returned, battered and broken beyond recognition.

None of it, not a drop of my own spilled blood compared to _this._

Sparks of brilliant orange, yellow, billowing into a plume of smoke, a pillar of violence meant to tear bodies apart, people from one another. And it had.

Chaos erupted, even the air was charged with it. The scent of iron lingered heavily beside it. Blood. So much _innocent _blood. My ears rang, the sound — or lack of — drowning out the screams around me, muffling it into a cacophony of disordered song. A concerto I'd heard before amidst a background that was entirely new.

The explosion had thrown me backward, my back colliding with the metal of a chair. I'd felt what I thought was the cracking of my rib, a minor casualty in the sea of death that surrounded me. I stayed a moment more, disoriented by what had happened, confused by how it had happened at all.

My fingers ran along my own flesh, the side of my face warm and sticky, crimson when I pulled my hand away. I gave my body a quick glance. Two arms. Two legs. Ten fingers. Although it felt that a rubber band had been pulled tight around my chest, constricting my lungs, I otherwise seemed intact.

There was debris, flakes of wall, ceiling, _human_ falling down on me. On all of us. I could feel it coating my mouth as I breathed, feel it snaking down my throat where it clung to my lungs alongside my fear. There was no escaping this.

And I wanted to. I desperately wanted to. To block my face with my soot-covered hands, to lay amongst the victims and wait for help, but the problem was, I _was _the help. I was supposed to stop this, to _prevent _it from happening at all. Perhaps it was too familiar, this wasn't the first time I had been here, although the scenery had been replaced with St. Matthews College, with the provinciality of London. This wasn't Helmand.

My vision blurred for only an instant, memories of a time long past replacing that in front of me. Legs, arms, _faces, _lying dismembered in the sand. Calls of a language I didn't know ricocheting off the hills. This time, there was the rubble of what had been a building, bodies of people who hadn't had a choice. Who had come to protest, some even to support, and who now lay dead beside me.

There were many differences. I could have continued to find ways to distract myself from my duties by comparing past to present, but one thing stood out in particular, ringed in importance. One person.

It was no longer the description of my job that brought me towards her — although that hadn't been my reasoning for some time now. Instead, it was an intimacy that forced me from the ground, forced my legs to move beneath me. It was something shared in dark places where no one could see, beneath sheets with moments meant only for one another. It was an attachment I hadn't yet learned the word for, maybe one too complicated for a word at all.

I squinted as I stumbled forward, the image of her outlined in my thoughts. Auburn hair curled around an oval face, sage eyes highlighted with cedar. I could hear her voice ringing amongst my disordered thoughts. _I want you right beside me not because it's your job, but because it's our choice. _It was the same reason I stumbled in the direction of the stage, towards the thick of it all. Towards a potential attacker. Had I not been her PPO, I would have done the same.

The haze stung my eyes as I moved forward, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me. The smoke was thick, burning inside my already throbbing lungs and stealing away my vision. But, there was movement. That of dark turquoise inside the fog, a pair of heels I recognized. I felt strength birth inside me once more as I ran — fell — towards her.

She'd fallen on her back from the blast, her chest rising only slightly — not enough. Her peach shirt had been turned rust by embers and smoke, clinging to her with droplets of blood. She wasn't the empowering woman I knew. Irritatingly strong and annoyed by my help. In her courting of death, she had grown helpless.

My body met hers, my fingers brushing against the skin of her face, the scarlet that fell away from her hairline. My eyes stung once more, this time a factor unrelated to the ash-laden air. With my hands still curled possessively around her, my body acting as a shield, my face turned away, searching for who had done this though I knew I would find nothing. That even if the perpetrator stood feet away from me, I couldn't have known, couldn't have seen. It was pointless, and I turned to her once again.

I no longer knew what was mine and what was hers, only that I was covered in crimson, the scent of iron that had filled my lungs far too many times. That she was too. And she was cold. Was that just my imagination? Was it a result of the sweat dripping down my own forehead? That I was simply too warm? That assumption was better than the alternative. Better than the fact that she had grown still beneath me. Even her groans of pain had subsided, leaving me in an eerie silence.

There were plenty of screams from beyond. I could hear them now, my hearing — fractured as it was — having returned. There were sobs, pleas for movement, for responses, and I silently asked for the same only to be met with nothing.

I buried my face into the orange of her shirt, just for a moment. I was met with the scent of flame, the snuffing of life. Of death himself, cold and unpleasant, and I knew. Knew even as the daylight of an opened door penetrated the haze of cinder, knew as men in white pulled her from my grasp, the siren of an ambulance blaring behind them, knew that she was gone.

With the fabric of her clothing, the chill of her flesh pulled free from my own, I crumpled to the fragmented stage floor. I let a whimper escape. Let myself wallow. My job had been to keep her safe _and I had failed. _

I had pushed the duty of her existence onto paramedics, doctors. Had made their presence here necessary. Now, it was her turn to fight, to push through the current that threatened to pull her beneath and through the veil of death that had already begun to take hold. All I could do was wait.

_"Skipper_." A voice urged, the notes of it riddled with familiarity, but distorted by my own grief. Guilt. I felt a pull on my bicep, an urge to move, and I did.

I looked up as I stood, into the somber grey eyes of Tom, a confusing note of understanding in his gaze. He looked — I supposed — like the rest of us: filthy, bloody, and as though he had graced death. I accepted his outstretched hand, the sturdiness of his fingers that I seemed to be lacking in my entire being and let him lead me to the ambulance, the one that was stealing her away.

I climbed into the cab as the doors behind her lifeless body closed. The siren blared as we pulled out onto the road, pushing our way through the traffic. I held my head, the sound cutting through it like a knife just pulled from the fire behind us. The only reprieve I could be thankful for was that it covered any sound from behind me, covered every sound that could have drifted through the thin wall between the cab and the bed. Any and every effort to keep her alive.

We pulled into the ambulance bay and I was freed, in a sense. Merely sentenced to another punishment. I caught only a glimpse of her, but it was enough. Enough to see that she was strapped onto a stretcher, a clear mask held to her face, the oxygen pulsing through it forcing her to breathe. She looked somehow worse than when I had first found her, but before I could give it any more thought, I was ushered away, through the sliding glass doors and into a new kind of chaos.

The hospital was a blinding contrast to the college. It was stark, white, riddled with a different kind of urgency than the one I had left. The distant beeping of machines rooted themselves somewhere beside my soul, an anxiety I wouldn't soon forget. The sound was erratic, a warning sign that I forced myself to ignore.

Her gurney was surrounded, the voices of her charges layering over one another, ensuring that I understood nothing but the delicacy of the situation.

I felt a hand on me again, the grip of it rough though the fingers were thin, wrinkled by age. It was a woman who pulled me away. A nurse, an assistant, I couldn't be sure. She directed me from the hall where surely I had been standing in the way, my eyes locked on Julia, my heart pounding in hopes that her own would.

My tongue formed the beginnings of questions, silenced only by the knowledge they wouldn't be answered. That even if the woman standing in front of me knew the answers, she couldn't have given them. I was destined to learn what would happen to her, to Julia, through time alone.

I disconnected myself from my surroundings, hardly registering the things she said, the instruction to change, the closing of the door. My movements were automatic, a routine I had never intended to have well-practiced, but that now required only basic thought.

I ignored the distant ache of my chest, the beginnings of bruises along my side, settling between my ribs. I covered myself again with the thin gown — worn by countless before me — discarding my own dusty and tattered clothing, my bulletproof vest, in the uneven chair along the nearest wall.

It was a doctor who fussed over me next, though I paid little attention, his words ringing inside my ears and my answers coming seconds too late. I listened half-heartedly as he explained that I had been far enough from the blast, that shrapnel had been minimal, that I'd been _lucky. _That word felt crude inside my mouth, rudimentary and untruthful. In reality, I had been unprepared, I hadn't paid enough attention

"But, you were close enough that primary blast injuries are still a possibility." I heard him say, his voice gruff and accusatory. "A lack of treatment could be fatal. Treatment we can't provide without a diagnosis, without testing." Then there was the rattling of symptoms I had heard before — some I had had. Others merely witnessed. "...trouble breathing, slow heartbeat... nausea, vomiting…"

It didn't matter. I shook my head, refusing every offer, every insistence until he left in a huff.

And we were alone again — the nurse and I. My vision was blocked by the painful brilliance of white walls, the closing of a door. The woman said little, her lips puckered in an emotion I was unsure of, that I was in no state to read. She prodded at my forehead, wiping away the blood that had dried there, had dripped along my face. I felt the coolness of a liquid cleaning it away.

The entirety of me ached, but I felt myself floating above as an observer rather than an active participant. I could feel the wound near my hairline that had produced the blood trickling down my face, but it felt distant, not mine. The throbbing of my head felt unlike my own, as though the pounding resonated throughout the hospital and not my own body. It was a sensation I pushed from the forefront of my mind. It was unimportant.

Even the prick of the needle, the tug of my skin, barely registered. I had been here before, beneath the harsh fluorescents that seared into my already tired eyes. Doted on by nurses, doctors. The only difference was the worry in their faces. This time, it wasn't reserved just for me, no, _I was fine. _Stitches were all I needed, the rest of me — the likely cracked ribs — would heal in time. Should my heart fail or my lungs collapse as a result of the explosion, maybe I could live with it. Maybe I deserved it, for past and present.

"Skip." It was Tom's voice I heard next, when I was alone once more, dressed in only the embarrassingly thin, hospital-issued gown. He held a bundle of fabric out to me, a worry, perhaps a sense of duty, in his features.

"They're giving them out." He continued when I only looked on in confusion. "Don't suppose you'd like to spend the night here in cinders." It was a fact we both knew without having to say it out loud. I was no longer her PPO here, I would not be permitted into whichever room they took her — the surgical theatre or morgue. That didn't mean I planned on leaving.

"Thanks," I mumbled, the word barely audible to my own ears. The only guarantee I had that my lips had even moved was the slightest nod of his head.

"Trousers, too. I'm afraid you're stuck with your own togs for the rest. Don't suppose you have...family you can call." It was a question posed as a statement and one that clearly made him uncomfortable.

Vic. I lifted the clothes from his hands, giving a grimace that was meant to display gratefulness, but only seemed to drive him from the room. Forgetting everything else, I fumbled for my phone, finding it in the folds of old clothing. I expected a crack across the screen, shattered glass from all that it and I had been through that night, but it — like me — was fine.

Pushing my thumb into the power button, Vicky's name flashed across the screen, a symbol beside it that I had missed her call. Twice. I pushed the button again, watched it flick to black before setting it aside.

The door to my hospital room had closed a final time with Tom's departure, the only task left for me was getting dressed and then I would wait. And wait. Wait for any news about Julia.

I unfolded the clothes he had passed to me, the black, long-sleeved shirt and equally dark pants. Clothing fit for a mourner.

There was a mirror hung on the back of the hospital room door — a feature I didn't understand — but I caught an image of myself bare once again. The beginnings of bruises that I had felt before were angry now, a deep mauve, the blood beneath my skin having rushed to the surface and stained what was left between my scars.

I felt a protest call from my side as I moved, the shifting of my ribs painful. A fact I hadn't bothered to bring up to the doctor. There was nothing they could do, no way to fix them other than time, and I had dealt with worse. The cry came again as I lifted my arms, sliding them into the sleeves of the shirt, again as I moved to pull up my trousers. A constant reminder that I was not, in fact, _fine. _

A reminder I once again ignored.

I collected the bag that had been set aside for me, what salvageable belongings I had left sliding into it. My wallet, keys, even the phone I continued to ignore. The rest would be tossed, suit and all.

I stepped through the door, the hallway beyond instantly filling with sound. Each doorway giving me a snapshot of what had happened that night. Tears — both of grief and joy — rang past them, whispers of doctors, the scratchings of pen. Bodybags.

The posting of guards led me out, following the faces of men I knew as they pointed me to the waiting room. I made it to the visitor's area, through the door that separated disaster and desire. Tile and Carpet. Urgency and a foolish sense of peace.

The lighting was dim, chairs cushy, and spare for the chatter of a tv — it was silent. Every attempt to make this place feel like home had been made, and not in vain. I felt part of myself give way here, away from the beepings of machines and light that splintered across my vision, worsening my headache. I felt the chains kept around my heart loosen ever so slightly, bringing with them the hint of possibility. That if Julia wasn't still alive, there wouldn't be policemen posted down hallways, the building wouldn't be full of people I knew, other protection officers. There was still a chance.

I stood beside a window, flashing blue lights from the ambulances below flickering off the surrounding buildings. I could hear the TV behind me, the station already tuned to some news channel, a reporter prattling on about tonight's events. I paid more attention to it than I would have liked to admit, curiosity, a different sense of hope winning over me.

"...a number of deaths...many in critical condition…"

I stepped away from the window, giving the program my full attention. I focused on the woman on the screen, the knowledge she was providing less than I already had. And I remembered.

Remembered as she said Julia's name, flat and unspecial, how Julia had looked at me. Remembered that flash of something in her eyes as I ran towards her. Hazel shining at me for the merest of a second before ash took over. I wondered what she thought, then. If she had been afraid. Maybe she had even expected an attack. She seemed unsurprised, though she must have known the reason I was coming for her was nothing good.

I remembered the way she cowered in the back of the car, blood staining every part of her. Remembered how she shivered beneath my hands, the whimpers of surprise as the bullets hit. If she had known what was coming today, there would have been fear. That flash, the glance in my direction meant something else entirely, I was sure of it.

It was a new voice that interrupted my thoughts, not nearly as broken as I hoped it would be and the theories inside me began to spin. I listened to Rob as he introduced himself to people I didn't know, gave instructions I had no part of when a second interruption came. A buzzing from my pocket. Vicky.

"Hiya, Vic," I answered, knowing she would be frantic, her voice tight with worry. How many times had we been here? With her waiting on the other side to see if I was alive? It was another addition to my list of guilt. I'd been so wrapped up in the events of the evening that — once again — I had hurt my family.

"Are you hurt? What happened?" Her questions layered over one another, barely a breath between them. I heard the voices of my children behind her, happy and unaware. Spared from reality. Her following words came as a whisper, kept from the children's ears. "I thought you were dead."

"No, I'm all right. I'm all right." I hurried. "A few scratches, nothing serious." It was the only answer I could give her, even if it was a lie. There was nothing else I could tell her, nothing to soothe her worry. Even I wasn't fully convinced I had survived, the only thing that told me so was the pain that spread through my lungs with each inhale.

Silence followed my voice, broken by only a sniff. "Are you still at the hospital?."

I paused, unable to give an excuse. I had ignored her out of selfishness. I had been unsure how to put the words together and chosen not to do it at all. With a soft sigh, I answered only with a "yeah."

Her voice came again, calmer this time, but still in edged in sorrow. I heard the beginnings of a question before the sound of her was covered by pounding footsteps. An angry question that I knew had nothing to do with Rob or the people behind me

"What the hell happened?" Roger towered over me, the rage burning inside him eclipsing his pupils. "For fuck's sake, answer me! I heard there were security breaches from the word go." It was an anger he didn't deserve to feel. A right he had lost when he had called it quits. It only infuriated me more, the monster built of fear and fury inside me lashing out.

"Lawful Protests by civil liberties activists."

"_You know what I mean_"

"A search team under POLSA direction swept the auditorium twice. _Everything was clear." _I urged myself to believe it, that some misstep hadn't been taken along the way.

"Well, it wasn't, was it?" He blurted. My jaw set at his words, my teeth grinding together. They held down the things I wanted to scream, that had rattled in my throat for so long now, some not having to do with him at all.

"_Sergeant." _It was Mike Travis' voice that broke through, piercing the argument and underlying threats, reminding me of my place. That I wasn't welcome here. That this man — Roger Penhaligon — had more public claim to worry over Julia than I did.

I said nothing. I looked at no one. Clenching my fists as I walked away, trying to ignore the hidden accusations that had laid inside Penhaligon's voice. Some of them — most — were justified and that only angered me more.

I slunk down the hall, my few possessions in hand. Past both police and civilians, past the questioning looks on their faces. My chest constricted as I made my way to the door, a feeling unrelated to my injuries and all to do with Julia. I felt a sting in the corner of my eyes not for the first time that night and I knew I had to leave. I needed more than just a break in the night air before I could return. I couldn't be here at all.

I could feel the mounting explosion in my veins. The same one that had been brewing for years. That Vicky had sent me away for. That had cost me nearly everything.

I stumbled into the parking lot, gasping for breath, overwhelmed by every thread of my ever winding tapestry. It was all too much and I was never enough to face it.

It was the billowing of shame, culminating until it fell from my lips in a sound I thought I was incapable of making. Years of things that I had hidden away, expecting them to heal themselves. Guilt. Regret. Too many could-haves and should-haves.

In-between those moments there had been too many beers, too many caustic words spat between Vicky and me until they had eroded the bond between us completely.

I'd wiped it away, swept the debris of that relationship from my view. I'd always hoped the pieces would find their way back to one another without my help, rebuilding themselves into the life I had known before and could then return to. But, my hand had been passive. I'd simply chosen another.

How could I form an attachment to another woman as damaged and as broken as I already was, when the one who had vowed to stay by my side could hardly stand my presence?

I'd hurt her before, hurt them both. I had felt Julia's throat beneath my fingers, the threat of an enemy too important in my unconsciousness, only realizing it was _her _when it was nearly too late_. _I was ashamed. The harm I'd done before then only in words that drove themselves inside of Vicky, severing the parts of her I loved most.

With Julia, I had found comfort in the warmth of a shared bed, in hungry kisses that told me they understood. I had let myself feel safe, but in the end, I had heard myself described as a monster by both of them.

The road was long and my legs ached — the entirety of me, really, but I pressed forward, searching for answers in the night and hoping I would find some among the pillows and blankets of my own bed.

I was exhausted. Julia and I, we, had had other plans for tonight. Attempted murder had never factored into it and so we hadn't left room.

Now, I was in the place I least wanted to be, my flat in view and too many cars in front of it. My heart thumped heavily in my chest. The night wasn't over.


	2. Fading Away

**A/N: Okay, so, I did not mean for an update to take this long. In part it was because I don't always write in order, I instead jump around to the places I feel inspired. The majority of what I _had_ written ended up being for chapter 3, oops. Because of that though, I have a large chunk of the next chapter completed and it shouldn't take nearly as long. **

**I hope you all enjoy this, that the wait wasn't disappointing. Again, I apologize for the usage of canon dialogue and moments, but I'm afraid I can't always skirt past them. I can promise however that after this chapter, things will be super original. Okay, enough chit chat. Read! And if you could be so kind, review. All of you have left such kind words and I am amazed by your support. It makes me want to be selfish and ask for more.**

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My absent-minded steps brought me home, though any thought of being alone was dashed. I recognized the faces of the people who stood beyond my door, knew their names. They were not people I knew intimately, not ones I had shared drinks with or traded secrets. They were coworkers and on any other day, I might have felt some flicker of joy for being with someone I recognized. But, their jobs had brought them to my home, marking me as some criminal before the investigation had even begun. I understood it. I knew it was protocol. But, I had hoped for a stretch of peace before I was forced to face the events of the day again.

I had, as of yet, been incapable of escaping my own mind. I had hoped to do that in the empty — children free — space of my own home. Now, Louise was standing in front of me, asking for everything I owned. For my phone.

Would the hospital call to tell me if, no, _when_ Julia had passed? I stared at the screen for a moment, willing the name "Lavender" to pop across it, for her voice to drift through the speaker telling me she was okay. With a heavy swallow I clicked it off, handing it and who knew what evidence against me over. I didn't have a choice.

Louise's voice was bored, flat, and I worried there was the hint of accusation between her words, but if it was there or merely one I placed on myself I wasn't sure. She gave me a "ta," a nod of her head, and stepped away in her overly large, white suit, those that had waited patiently beside her following her through _my _door, into _my _home.

I swallowed again, my tender nerves sparking with another flame. I thought about the things they might find, that would only incriminate me. The image of my Glock entered my mind and I hoped It was hidden well enough. What worried me most wasn't if they found it, but that it would put a stopper in the investigation. I would be held under inaccurate suspicion and her..._killer_ would get away with it.

The only ammo I owned was loaded inside of it — yet another fact that could add to my prison sentence, the fact that it was ready. I thought then of my computer, the searches I had made. I thought of Andrew and our conversation only a few days prior. I hadn't listened, hadn't agreed that Julia had "needed her own taste", but that didn't mean a passerby hadn't heard what he said. A motive, a cause, everything they needed lay just in the house beyond me. I had thought I would be safe. I had never expected an assassination attempt and therefore hadn't prepared for it. But, even so, I don't think I would have expected to be a suspect.

"_Sarge!" _

It was the only word escaping the brick and mortar of my home and the one that probably scared me the most. It meant they had found something.

I strained my ears, hoping to catch a strand of conversation, maybe an admission that I _couldn't _be involved. I was desperate even for the sound of footsteps, the knowledge of where in my house the caller stood. If it was by something that should scare me. I received only silence that persisted into the night, the minute ticking by me.

There was the squeak of the door, echoing in the empty quiet. It was followed by the gentle patter of footsteps, whispered chatter about something that didn't even pertain to me, not even Julia. Her importance had fallen from the minds of the people here.

And then there was Louise.

She pulled her mask from her face, handing it to someone who stood behind her. She sighed, her eyes darting away from me for just a moment, but not before I caught the perplexion that lingered there.

Noting her stature, my shoulders dropped, my muscles releasing a tension I didn't know they had held.

"It's important to bring you in," she began and I knew this night would be long for more than just me. "You've got stitches, there." She gestured to the skin above her own eyebrow. "Are you in a good enough state to answer some questions? We'll need more than a basic report."

"No, no." I nodded, chewing on my lip. "I'll be fine. Anything to find out what happened."

"Right, then. I imagine you'd like to pop inside, change, freshen up before we head to the station?"

I looked down at my black, issued clothing, the shoes on my feet that were not my own. I didn't particularly care, clothes were clothes, but I felt the urge to check for what they had found. "I'll be just a minute, if that's all right?"

Louise gave the hint of a smile as she lifted her arm holding out my keys. This was a benefit few others would have. Had I not been on the force, not acquainted with her, I would have simply been dragged away.

I stepped towards her, snatching them from her fingers with a force I didn't mean to come to the surface.

I walked inside, listening to the click of the door settling into place and was met once more with quiet. This is the one I had come for, had dreamed of as I left the hospital, but now it felt eerie. Uncomfortable. It was like having an intruder, although these ones had been welcome, they had still touched my things. Maybe I simply imagined it, but every object inside my home appeared shifted just to the side and I felt unwelcome here. I felt as though _I _was the intruder.

I turned away, taking the stairs to my basement quickly. I had promised to be fast, and to avoid suspicion I needed to be. I reached the bottom, flicking on the light. There was a momentary buzz before it flickered to life, bathing me in artificial light. I reached towards it, to the bulb in the ceiling and gently pushed it upwards. Standing on my toes, I stretched, my hand fumbling around the hole until I felt the cool metal. I gave a gasp of relief. Even knowing that if had they found it I would have been arrested, I was relieved.

I replaced the light quickly, removing all evidence I had moved it at all before stepping through the nearby door and into the utility room. I crouched beside a forgotten basket, the clothes inside wrinkled and bunched beside one another. I plucked jeans from within it, a green pullover and set them aside.

I undressed quickly, the clothing falling into puddles around my feet before I kicked them aside. My vision was filled with purple. The apparition of bruises that hadn't been there before now dotting my thighs, my knees, my calves, in varying shades of violet. I'd remembered flying backward, but if these had come from that, I had no idea.

Disgusted by the reminder, I covered myself quickly, the fresh clothing blocking any residual memory. When I was done, I turned the light off once more, taking the steps two at a time. Grabbing a pair of trainers from beside the door, I slipped them on.

I stepped outside, finding only Louise. Her white suit of before was gone, replaced by professionalism. I locked the door behind me, following her across the pavement and towards a panda car that sat along the road. I paused beside the door of it, unsure if I was meant for the front like a coworker or the back like a criminal.

She seemed to notice my hesitation, speaking as she opened her own side. "The front will do. You aren't under arrest."

I had the impression that she had left off the word "yet," but my imagination had run wild that evening, incriminating me before they had.

The ride was quiet with no words shared between us. She took the turns I knew well, barreling into the city, and asked no questions all the while. There was no small talk, no observation about the weather or inquiry of my children, and I was thankful. And so very tired.

"DCI Sharma is meeting us here." She said as we slipped into the parking garage and the car came to a stop. "I know it's been a long night for you, David, but we appreciate your help. It's critical to find who did this. I know you understand that."

I did. It was what I thought of as we stepped inside the building, advancing up never-ending staircases. I felt slight relief. Relief that maybe I wasn't as suspected as I thought. Reminded that this was only protocol, that they would do the same with Tom, with Kim.

I was led through doors though I knew the way, placed inside a room that I'd been in so many times before, though this time I sat on the opposite side, on the chair occupied by so many suspects, witnesses, rapists, murderers, and now, me.

I stared down at the table, wondering just how I had gotten here, how my life had taken so many jagged turns and unexpected cut-offs, leaving me broken and alone, away from the women I had loved and the children I had loved even more.

"Mind if we crack on while everything's fresh?"

It was the voice of a man, one I'd heard earlier that evening and the man Louise had said would meet us. He was more unwelcoming than Louise had been, but this man and I were far less acquainted.

"Sir." I gave a nod, assenting though I knew I had no other option.

DCI Sharma tapped at the folder he had placed in front of him, gesturing to the information inside that was kept away from my own eyes. I listened to the two of them talk, to the mentions of Fenton and Knowles as they set the scene. I gave another nod, assuring them they were right.

"Fenton recalled you and PC Knowles left the auditorium a short time before the explosion." It was Louise that spoke and I looked at her, giving a "yes."

I thought of Mahmood, how jittery he had been as he'd handed the briefcase out to me. The suspicion I'd had at the time for him was gone and now I wondered if his jitters had been nerves, or simply too much coffee. I thought of Kim, how she had appeared behind me, asking if we were alright.

"What does Kim say?" The finer details of the attack were fuzzy and I wondered if she felt the same. I'd seen Tom, had taken clothing from him even, but Kim had been missing, presumably inside her own room receiving her own set of stitches. Maybe she hadn't been here at all, maybe they hadn't spoken to her yet.

They were silent, stealing a glance from one another as if deciding who should speak and I looked between them expectantly, willing them to hurry it on.

"I"m...sorry, David." She looked down at the table, choosing to focus on the space in front of me rather than my face and I felt the plummeting of my heart. It no longer remained in my chest, beating rhythmically against my lungs like it should. That evening it had taken up permanent residence in my stomach, the pounding making me sick.

"She died of her injuries."

She said what I knew was coming and my lip trembled, my nerves already frayed by distraught gave another protest. I looked between them again, towards Louise who held a thread of her own sadness, and Sharma who looked only bored. He gave no apology, no shred of sympathy, and instead carried on.

"Look, Mate. You know how important this might be. Who was it?" His voice was emotionless, that of someone who wished the night was over, but only for his own gain.

I sucked my lips in, chewing on the flesh of them only for a moment. It was the containment of a sob I knew was coming, but I willed it not to be here. There was the irritating blur of my vision, the one that had seemed to be there tonight more often than not. I closed my eyes, blinking away the tears and I thought of Kim, again. I thought of her smile and the way she said my name, thought of the drinks we had shared after work. I thought of the friend that I had made in her and how she was the first to welcome me to the force. I thought of the man who had stood across me earlier, not much younger than myself, begging for entry to the stage. I felt the billowing of guilt, regret, and all the emotions in between.

"Tahir Mahmood."

My words, the near cracking of my voice, was followed by the scribbles of a pen across from me, was followed by more questions on what he had done, what he had said, and I gave them all I knew. I told them of the documents he'd had in his briefcase, words Julia had needed and his simple request to give them to her.

I told them what was inside, that it had been nothing more than paper, that I had looked beneath them. I wondered then if I had missed something. If there had been a trigger sewed inside the lining, that I should have caught a loose stitch or a bulge among the black, but I knew there had been nothing. It had not been inside. I thought of the fact that maybe it might have been on Mahmood himself, carried in an interior pocket or perhaps up his sleeve for easy access. If it had been wrapped around his belly like Nadia's not so long ago.

"You didn't search him?"

I heard my own thoughts mirrored from across the table and felt it morph into an annoyance, _an anger. _

"No." The word was harsh as it left my lips, though the tone wasn't entirely meant for them.

"We got these video captures of CCTV in the seconds before the attack." Louise's voice was flatter now, similar to that of Sharma's beside her. Filled with her own irritation. I wondered if it was meant for me.

I pushed the thought away, looking instead at the photograph that was slid in front of me. My eyes lingered on Julia, though I couldn't make out any of her features. It didn't matter, I had memorized them. They fell next to Mahmood, a shadow of him just visible in the back, and then, Kim. The blonde of her hair and paleness of her skin now blurred with the darkness of her suit as she ran towards the stage.

"And here's you." Sharma's finger fell beside my own image, my blur that lingered much too far behind Kim's. "Not so quick on the uptake."

I shook my head. They had said the things that I had already tortured myself with in the hours past, the image of Kim haunting me as she noticed what I had not. The concerned jerk of her head towards the side of the stage, the steps that had carried her forward before worry had even settled inside me.

The accusations of the officers across from me were unnecessary. They'd rattled in my mind all of the night before until the edges of my brain were numb, lulled into uselessness by the pain the words had created. Now they were said aloud, reflected back at me, confirming that my worries were far from just being mine.

I felt cracks crawl up my armor, the one I had placed around myself to keep the same wounds from appearing in my skin

What followed was a blur, the questions they asked feeling more like accusations, insinuations that I either hadn't done enough, or I had done the wrong things, I had been involved. I realized now that the kindness Louise had displayed before had been a sham. She had lulled me in with the pretense that she didn't believe I was involved and I had fallen for it.

But, Sharma was different. His beliefs in my involvements made clear from the beginning. The longer this interrogation had gone on, the sharper his words had become. Now they cut across me like a blade.

I answered as truthfully as I could, knowing that none of my actions that night or in the time I had served Julia were out of any wrongdoing. That all I had done was meant to protect, never to harm, even if in the end it hadn't been enough.

Louise gave a heavy sigh, her eyes locking with mine in sincerity. "Is there something you're not revealing to us regarding the state of your mind before, during, or after the attack?"

"No." My answer was clear, firm, I wanted to be sure they understood. It was the truth. There hadn't been a change, not in the way they suspected, that with their limited knowledge they could have guessed. The trauma of my past had persisted, an ever turbulent ocean with waves that never released. Some of the swells were bigger than others, occasionally pulling me just a little deeper, but they all drowned me just the same. I'd fought against these waters since my return, long before I was responsible for Julia's survival.

"Right." She looked me up and down and I knew that she didn't believe me, that if she didn't it was even less likely for Sharma to. "Well, they're searching your flat. You got anywhere you can stay tonight? Anyone you can call?"

My eyebrows flicked inward ever so slightly. They had gone back. She had tricked me, and they had gone back. I looked away from them with the billowing of a new anger.

"Yeah...yeah." There was Vicky, there was always Vicky.

I knew without asking that she would let me stay, that despite all the shit between us, we were still husband and wife. That she cared for me. If nothing else, her persistent phone calls, her worried voice told me that.

"Let's get on with it then."

Louise stood so suddenly it took me a minute to respond. The scraping of my own metal chair as I stood broke through the awkward silence and Sharma winced. I watched for a moment as he stuffed the picture they had shown me back in its file, replacing all the paperwork, the answers I had given them. He stacked it neatly inside the manila folder before taking his own leave, darting sharply through the door before either Louise or I could bid him goodnight. Not that I wanted to.

Bitterly, I followed her again. Through the winding hallways and down the staircase, our steps echoing amongst the metal and plaster. This time, it was not a panda, but an unmarked car. I felt relief at her knowledge, that a police car would not be appropriate outside a safe house, not when we wanted to remain just that — _Safe._

The silence occupied our ride as a passenger sitting between us. She again asked me no questions, her tongue perhaps tired from the interrogation they had already given. It was for the best, I would have been reluctant to provide answers. I wanted to be free of her, free of tonight, free of all company. I didn't even want Vicky, but we pulled in front of the row house just the same.

I popped the lock, opening the car door as Louise gave me a curt goodnight and I did the same. I could hear the motor running behind me as I walked and I knew she was watching me, out of curiosity or suspicion I wasn't sure. Perhaps she expected me to make some admission of guilt to Vicky. How easily that would make their investigation.

I ignored it, rapping on the safehouse door.

A moment later Vicky's silhouette appeared behind the frosted glass and I heard the click of the lock. She pulled the door open, her face solemn and empathetic as she smiled up at me. The lines around her eyes gave way to her tiredness, the worry I had caused, and I was so very sorry.

I stepped inside, nearly collapsing against her. All that night I had begged the world for solitude and now I wanted nothing more than to be with her, to feel the comfort of her fingers linger against me and for her voice to tell me it was okay when we both knew it wasn't

"Sorry." I found myself apologizing, knowing she hadn't expected me. Knowing that I could never have those things I so desperately wanted.

I had seen how the love in her eyes had dulled, the light once held for me now obscured by the thought of another man. It wasn't what had broken us apart, but it had wedged itself between us, making any reconnection impossibly more difficult. More painful

There was more to reconsider. If I wanted her. If we wanted each other. I just wanted things back to the way they were years prior when we'd first met, when everything had seemed so simple.

Now, the way she looked at me was different. There was concern, yes. The blue of her eyes radiated with worry, but was it the worry for an old friend or lost love? Was it worry she'd place on her new boyfriend? It felt — more than anything else — like pity. And I didn't want it.

I walked like a stranger through this home we should share, my steps carrying me to the sitting room. I heard her behind me and though I had come wanting nothing more than to fall asleep, to escape, part of me was grateful.

I stepped through the archway, my eyes falling to the waiting blankets and pillow. She'd made up the couch though it was much too short for my length and I briefly wished for a spot in the bed beside her, our bodies cradled close. It wasn't necessarily her I wanted — I didn't even know what my wants were anymore – I just wanted to feel loved. Wanted to feel like I mattered, that if I had died today I would have been missed. I craved human touch, the touch of fingers running through my hair. With Julia edging closer to the "after" I wasn't sure when I would feel such affection again. I didn't want to wait, but I had no choice.

I heard the shuffle of fabric, the squeal of one of the rockers behind me and I turned, looking at her, at the blueness of her eyes I had once so loved and that now confused me. I knew she wanted to talk, that I owed her answers, and I had to give them to her. I sat in the chair beside her, though my eyes lingered on the couch. I wasn't sure I could face her.

"After you hung up on me I kept trying to call you back." Her voice was soft, and though there was a question in her words, it wasn't like that of Louise or Sharma. It was one of worry and I had no good answer. I had ignored her. Ignored her for Roger, for my own state of mind. I had ignored her as I walked home, unable to face communication with anyone that wasn't Julia. I had no other option to lie, so I did.

"They took my phone as part of the investigation."

I watched from the corner of my eye as she looked down, fiddling with the edge of her robe. When she spoke, her voice was more insistent, searching for justification that she deserved. An answer to why I had failed her. "Why couldn't you just let me know you were okay?"

I paused, the trembling of my lip, the flexing of a muscle in my cheek as I fought for control taking over. The tears that had so desperately wanted to come all that night making another appearance. Still, I couldn't let them spill down my cheeks. Instead, I said the most truthful thing I had all night. "'Cause I'm not."

If I had expected a hug, an "_oh, Dave," _I was disappointed again. Instead, I listened to Vicky brush off my words, the concern that had been in her voice only shortly before, drifting through the speaker of my phone seemed to have dimmed. Now that I was here — in front of her — her worries seemed to have been placated enough for her to leave, for this conversation to wait.

I wasn't only not okay. I was broken and desperate and I saw the image of my gun in my mind once more, this time it was not out of concern of where I had left it. There had been so many times that I had pressed it to my temple though I had always changed my mind, had always been saved. I felt the temptation rage again.

I watched as she stepped away, towards a bed and a bedroom that we would never share. I felt as though Julia and I were in the same place, the fabric of the veil clutched between our fingers, treading the line between life and death, though hers hadn't been a choice.

I heard the closing of a door and I knew Vicky was gone, that I was alone. I couldn't be here. I couldn't wait for answers.

My legs carried me from my seat before I had fully decided. They brought me closer to another door and out into the October air. The chill that rested in my soul was unrelated.


	3. Long Shadows

I wasn't sure how I'd gotten to the hospital, my feet had brought me here without a thought, knowing what I needed before I was even sure, but I was here now. The doors slid open to admit me inside and the people that filled these halls were no longer ones I knew.

There were no chess board uniforms or bright yellow vests. Any blood here came from different circumstances. I felt that the world had moved on around me and I was too heavy, too burdened to move with them.

I reached the operation waiting room, the blank, white walls and shadeless windows. Sorrow lived here. It clung to the cobwebs in the corners and the frames of doorways which held answers. It dwarfed any hint of hope, for even if the surgery was a success, it had been needed all the same.

There was no point in making this place welcoming, not when no one wanted to be here to begin with.

The seats were hard, plastic. They were not the ones of earlier, no longer a room that invited family in, that provided a false sense of peace. Comfort when they most needed it. Instead, these ones reminded me where I was. Why I was here. They beckoned me closer with the suggestion of sleep that I would never allow to come.

I sat rigidly, uncomfortable, the minutes stretching out before me, the colors in the sky changing with the rising sun. I listened to the chatter of people I didn't know, words of joy and sorrow and knew that soon my own would fall in one of those categories. I hoped it was the first.

There was the soft shuffle of Doctors, their steps quieted by the cloth that covered their shoes, the distant clicks of a pen and scribbling of ink. There were sniffles from drying tears and a soft murmur of the telly playing in the corner, a rerun of some sitcom I had never seen.

My eyelids drifted, the tone of the mundane giving me some stretch of peace. My thoughts had stopped. Forgotten was the scarlet I could still see in the crevices of my fingers and the fire and smoke that had brought it there. I instead found myself falling within memories of crimson lips and soft skin, of the warmth of her pressed against me. I thought of the two of us beneath the sheets, my arm slung against her side holding her near. I longed to feel it again, knew that I would be at this very moment had we not meandered down another path.

"This way."

It was a new voice, that of a woman, and I looked for it out of instinct. I caught the pink of her suit before my vision fell on the hunched woman behind her and the red that blotched her cheeks and ringed her eyes. And then there was Roger.

He was last in this short line, his steps confident, an assurety in them that he was the only one who deserved to be here. He looked across the small room, his glare sharp, carving into me.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" He spat. "You had your job and you failed." His words were caustic, burning me with the truth as they fell from his lips. I said nothing. How could I convince him of my version of events when I couldn't even convince myself?

Instead, my gaze followed him down the tile, curious by his sudden purpose, his sudden appearance. I hadn't known where he'd been. If he'd been here all night, tucked away in the comfortable waiting room of before, or if he'd gone home. If he'd fallen asleep against his pillow, leaving any worries he held about Julia behind. I wondered just how much he cared about her and how much of this was a show, but my thoughts were tipped on their axis as I saw the mint green of a surgeon step through one of the doors through which I wasn't allowed.

I bolted from my seat, the moment I had been waiting for suddenly here, my worries of the night culminating to these seconds that seemed to stretch out in front of me.

"_I'm sorry…_"

I heard the words from a distance, soft and distorted by the space between us, but I knew. I didn't need to hear the rest. What followed was a stake through my heart all the same.

"_...we did everything we could."_

The air had been sucked from the room. I felt the invisible cord tighten impossibly more around my throat, my breath sharp, the air like jagged blades as it made it to my lungs. I wished again that the explosion had taken me. Instead, civilians had died, Kim had died, and now, Julia had joined them.

The storm inside me raged. The tumultuous waves swirled, dredging up pain and anger and casting them at my walls. I choked against the salt as it built in my throat before spilling down my cheeks. Finally, the tears came, and there was no stopping them. They had fought against the crevices of my soul until the fabric of it tore free, unfixable, and the tears unstoppable.

My hand came to my lips as I turned away, the stifling of a sob that threatened to split the quiet air.

I was pulled from the room by metal and gunpowder, by the thought of what was to come. The idea had lingered inside me and I had prepared for this moment. Had taken Vicky's only way of stopping me, but even then, the decision hadn't been final. Not until now.

I hadn't expected Julia to be such an anchor, but without her I was left drifting in a sea of agony that flooded me, that allowed me to slip beneath the surface unnoticed.

Now, the surface seemed so far up above. It was much too far to swim and the fight to try had left me.

There was no rush inside of me as I left the hospital, no need to hurry as nothing awaited me but death.

* * *

I reached for the envelopes first. I'd written the names on them so long ago when I had first decided my fate. Vicky had been there for that. She'd seen me convulse, had wiped the drool from my cheek and held me close when the seizures had stopped. She'd forced disgusting liquids down my throat, forced the medicine up and out. She had taken care of me, had pulled me from the drain I had circled.

After that the pills had been thrown away, my attempt kept a secret as I was shipped off to fight in another land. But, I had kept the letters and she had never known about the gun.

What had been our end had never been said out loud. The problems between us had simply stacked, growing larger until neither of us could carry it. The trauma I'd carried with me, the death that it insisted on, it had been the final straw of the too heavy bundle.

It was that same desire for death that made this part so easy. I had been calm as I walked. My hand hadn't shook on the doorknob of my home, the one that had felt so unwelcome hours before.

I suddenly didn't care what the police had done here, if my place was bugged or if things had been taken. It didn't matter, after all they were worldly things and I was destined for somewhere else.

I had gone first to my file cabinet. The envelopes of the letters I had left were manilla. The color blended with the files stacked above them, leaving them unnoticed unless every folder had been taken out. I somehow doubted my documents had been that thoroughly searched. And I was right. At least if they'd been, read they'd been left.

I'd opened them, my eyes scanning over the letters I had left long ago, the words inside meant for children much younger, a marriage that hadn't been broken. All that remained now was the letters of their names I had scrawled on the outsides. Ella. Charlie. Vicky.

Inside the envelopes were new slips of paper. I told the children how much I loved them and why I had to go. That second part had been harder, the reasoning much too difficult for children of eight and ten to understand. I hoped they never would, that they never travelled down the same path of heartbreak that I had.

I had placed the letters on a table, a place I knew Vicky would see them. I knew that she would find me and that was my one regret. I knew her. I knew that the lack of keys wouldn't stop her entry and she knew me. She'd know why I didn't answer long before she'd find my body.

The gun had come next, pulled from the basement ceiling where I had moved it days before. It was a leaden weight in my hand as I took the stairs upward, my final walk to the gallows.

I looked around the room as I knelt to the ground, at the tablet stashed on a far away shelf, one that the kids liked to play on, at a transformer Charlie had forgotten when he was here last, at the picture of him and Ella on a higher shelf. My children were the only ones that pained me to leave behind.

There was no question about _if _I wanted to do this. The idea had long ago planted itself inside my mind, outlining every interaction, every memory, of how things could be, that I shouldn't have to endure these things. The idea had festered, germinating like a most unwelcome fungus. It clouded my most pleasant memories, darkening even the happiest times.

The days with my children were burdened by the idea that they deserved better. Deserved what I couldn't give them, though I wanted to. Each day spent with them only cast longer shadows in tomorrows as they returned home to their Mum and I was alone once more.

Nothing was ever enough, not for me, not for them. I was going to fix that.

I raised my hand, and it finally began to shake. My finger jerked dangerously on the trigger as the muzzle pressed into my temple. I felt the world around me blur again, felt the hands of Death wrap around my throat, squeezing it so tightly that only the beginnings of sobs broke through the spaces of his fingers.

My hand fell for a moment, my shoulders shaking, my cries breaking the stillness of my home. Though death lay only seconds away, I needed the release. I need the rawness of my throat and the stinging of my eyes. I needed to mourn. For Julia. For my family. For myself. For everything I had lost that had led me to this point.

With a swallow, I found my resolve and the cool metal of the Glock rested against my head once more.

I squeezed the trigger and my world went black.

* * *

I felt a vibration. It began along my leg, the tingles dying down as it drifted outward. The sensation was unpleasant and I groaned. My head throbbed and I didn't know why. It splintered outward from my temple, cutting across my skin in sharp prickles. I squeezed my eyes tight, willing the pain to go away.

My bed felt so hard, so uncomfortable, and I was so cold. I grappled at the side of me, searching for the blankets I seemed to be missing and finding wood instead.

It was then I remembered. Remembered the anguish, the silver, remembered falling.

The vibration which I hadn't noticed had stopped came again, vibrating in familiar intervals. I realized it was my mobile, that the previous call had ended and another began. My fingers fumbled along the fabric of my pocket, feeling nearly detached as they reached inside. I pulled my cell out, easing my eyes open. The world swam above me, the ceiling, lights, even the bookcase by my side blurring into one singular object. I felt as though I might be sick and begged for the movement to stop. It didn't.

As a distraction, an automatic reaction — I wasn't sure — I brought my cell into my point of view, my eyes trying to read the much too bright screen. The black numbers were indecipherable in my state and I nearly allowed my hand to drop, the call forgotten. It was likely just Vicky. Instead, motivated by some pull I didn't understand, I dragged my finger across the screen, answering it.

I pressed it to my one good ear — the one that wasn't ringing —and searched the depths of myself for my voice.

"Hello?" I rasped finally, my voice broken by my day and the choices I had made.

"_David." _

My heart thudded to a stop, my breath thundered in my lungs. I grappled the floor beside me, searching for any sign that this was _real. _That I was here.

Her voice was tired — the result of anesthetic and a fight for her life. I was surprised that she was awake at all.

"J...Julia." I stumbled over the letters of her name. I had been so sure that I would never hear my voice say them again. That I would never hear _her_ voice again. "You're...they said you were…" My brain throbbed, my thoughts were disjointed and I struggled to string them together, confusion the foundation for each.

I cleared my throat, trying to focus on the movement of my mouth. Anything else was too painful. "They said you were gone."

There was a heavy sigh from the other end of the line, one too full for me to understand the entire meaning behind it, but I knew that there was something I was missing.

"For the world beyond, I am." She spoke finally. "I need your services." There was a pause, time enough for my heart to give a beat of disappointment. "I need you."

I sat up, the floor hard beneath me, the time I had spent sprawled across it causing an ache deep within my bones. There was a knock at the door, breaking the concentration I had forced, the pounding of an insistent fist.

"I need to _see_ you." Julia finished, her voice more exhausted than before. "No one can know."

I nodded, forgetting for a moment that she couldn't see me. Forgetting where I was at all. There was another knock, the drifting of Vicky's voice, my name said in frustrated panic. A threat that she'd call the police.

"I'll be there." I stuttered, heaving a sigh of mixed emotion. "But first, you need to rest."

My thumb fumbled against the screen, ending the call before she could disagree. I knew she would, she always did. I pushed myself upwards, the acid of my stomach threatening to splatter on the floor in front of me. There was nothing else in there. My fingers gripped at the bookshelf beside me, begging for it to help keep me upright.

There was more pounding from below, harder than before, and I urged my feet forward.

I don't know how I made it downstairs, how I remained upright for the entire — yet, short — journey. I only knew that the door knob was cold beneath my hand, that the sunlight beyond was harsh on my eyes, and that Vicky stepped over the threshold with an expression of sincere worry etched in her features.

Her arms opened, the beginnings of a concerned hug, when she glanced at my forehead, the tiniest bit of relief that had filled her moments before turning instead into horror.

"_David. _What did you do?" The words fell from her lips the moment the door was shut behind her, cutting the world away and bathing us in solitude.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

The ground had seemed solid beneath me once, long ago, now the tide pulled the sand out from under me again leaving me standing unsteady once more. My anchor lay in the trolly that still felt so far away, the ocean stretching between us.

The mask I had carefully crafted over years fell into place, blocking away everything I didn't want her to see, my hat concealing the rest.

My hair was still coagulated with blood, what Vicky had been unable to clean. It had dried long before she had arrived. Part of me was glad it had remained. It clung to me as a reminder of my further mistakes, of the decisions I made too hastily. And though I needed to figure out why my gun had been loaded with a blank, for this one, fleeting moment, I was glad.

Julia smiled at me, her lips spreading in exhaustion, but a grin all the same. I stared at her, at the purple of her limbs that stood out against the stuff, white blanket. The wool that I knew was scratchy against her skin, but seemed to be in every hospital the world over.

I felt the shape of her name in my mouth, though it seemed not to fit through my lips. The word, too, surprised by the sight of her. Instead I sat — crumpled — in the chair beside her bed. My hand latched around her wrist, her skin cold beneath my touch, and she winced.

"You're okay." She mumbled.

It was not that of a question, but a statement, a reassurance she gave herself. If only she had known. But, she had fought too hard, fought too much for the day. She needed rest. I wouldn't be the one to take that from her. I wouldn't tell her how so very recently I had felt the gun against my skin and my finger on the trigger. I would not tell her of the unbearable pain upon impact and the unconsciousness that had followed. The disappointment of when I woke, realizing it hadn't been death. Instead, I sobbed despite myself.

The resolve I had tried to hold — the mortar I had repaired myself with — cracked. The fractures spread until I was shattered beside her, the things I had been, the things I was, and the things I had wanted to be lying in pieces. Coating the space between us in agony.

I couldn't hold it in any longer.

I cried until I felt my throat go raw, broken by my tears. I questioned how everything had gone so wrong, how this one thing had gone right. How she was laying beside me despite the attack. The hollows inside me once filled with anguish, with grief from what I had heard the doctors say were washed away, leaving me empty.

I felt the softness of her skin smoothing out the strands of my hair. She said nothing while I fell apart, perhaps it was a destruction that didn't need words, that she had understood. I pulled away, my eyes meeting hers despite the blurred edges of my vision and I was consumed by something else.

I had been selfish. I had come to her room more whole than she and I had wallowed. I stood, my legs trembling from exhaustion, pain...relief. I needed her now more than ever, needed to feel our bodies beside each other and I cared about nothing else in that moment. About who might see. I needed to know that she wasn't some hallucination created in my death, that she was real, that _we had survived. _And I kissed her.

She tasted of nothing, but was somehow still sweet beneath my lips. I could still smell the scent of flame upon her, felt the spark of remembrance in my soul, and I pulled away.

I hovered, barely a breath's space between us. I felt the need to fill it with something other than air and said the one thing that came to mind. "I'm sorry"

It was an apology for more than just the explosion — for what I should have noticed — but all the things before and after it, too. For the way my hands had tightened around her throat, the contempt I had had when her words suggested I was a prize to be won. For the hatred of her values I had held not long ago. For the person I had been before she changed all that.

It was my turn to comfort her and my fingers brushed against her forehead, sliding the hair that had fallen into her eyes back into place. She was quiet and I thought that this, too, she understood. That some things didn't need to be said aloud between us.

Instead, she said my name, and I nearly crumpled again, broken this time not by sadness, but relief.

"David." She repeated, her green eyes taking me in. It lingered on my cap, her gaze questioning, but she didn't push and I was glad. "I don't know why we're here, I don't know why any of it happened. But, I'm glad that once again, you're beside me."

And I was too.


	4. Julia

**Hey, me again. This should not have taken as long as it did and I sincerely apologize.**

* * *

"David"

His name was a whisper on my breath, nevermind the ashes in my throat. I wasn't sure I'd even said it at all or if the visage of him sitting there was a part of this distant dream I couldn't convince myself was reality.

He didn't answer, he instead sat there, his hand lingering along the skin of my arm, almost as if he was afraid to touch me, to _really_ touch me.

He looked different this way, in plain street clothes and without the edges of a bulletproof vest beneath the fabric of his shirt. Different, but still completely broken.

Ordinarily, his eyes were so very, overwhelmingly blue, the color of a sky on a summer day, but a storm had come over him in the time that had passed. Time that I'd lost track of. Now, he sat, gray and weary. Whatever storm that raged inside now poured out of him, but the hollow in my throat that was suddenly so hard to swallow past told me it had been raining inside for sometime.

I wanted to ask him questions. I wanted to know what happened. I remembered only the look of his face as he ran toward me and the smoke that had made it so hard to breath. I remembered the pain. I wanted him to fill in the gaps, but he seemed unable to offer me the pieces and I suspected they were painfully embedded in him.

And I was so tired. My body throbbed and the edges of my vision grew blurry with the need for sleep that I shouldn't have fought, but couldn't imagine succumbing to. I need to heal. I needed to rest. Three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung. I could count the parts of me that were injured on one hand, though the stitches that ran across my forearm, my stomach, my cheek amounted to much more. Really, I was lucky, and even beneath the throbbing of my chest and the painful pull to draw in oxygen, I knew that.

My eyes scanned over David again, the thought of my own injuries seeming to register something within me. I could see the bruising along his forehead, the bruising that I assumed was the reason for his hat, but it was all I had been able to find. There was no stiffness in his walk or wincing as he occupied the chair beside my bed. But, he'd been so close…

"You're not…" I swallowed, my mouth dry from the events of my day and my words slow as a result. "You're not hurt." I said it without question, though I doubted the reasonability of it.

"Erm, no." He gave a slight shake of his head, his eyes falling to the tile beneath his feet. Unable to look at me as he lied. "Bit of a headache, but I'm fine. I'm not the one who had surgery."

He glanced up at me, a smile pulling at his lips although it wasn't reflected in his red rimmed eyes.

I sighed involuntarily, the muscles of my chest seizing in response, but the drugs flooding my veins dulled the pain that came with it.

"I should go." He blurted, and I knew that I should let him, should let sleep befall me, but I wasn't ready.

My hand gripped at his wrist, afraid that he'd step away without a goodbye. "Don't," I pleaded, my voice more desperate than I would have liked. But I was afraid. Afraid of the shades of orange that seemed burned into the recesses of my mind, that were there when I closed my eyes. Afraid of the scent of cinder that seemed to stay with me, that of the hospital having yet to wash it away. I was afraid that if he left, it might happen again. That he might not come back. "Please."

"Okay," he smirked, "okay."

My room blurred, the walls, the furniture, David, all of it distorting into a singular shade of gray that I had to blink away. I heard him shift, heard the gentle squeal of the chair as it was edged across the floor and I felt a fearful flutter of my heart. Then there was warmth. The softness of his skin brushing against mine, the fabric of his shirt pressing into my arm.

I wiped at my brimming tears, taking as deep of a breath as my body would allow before I turned my head towards him.

I found him against me, the width of his broad frame now squished beside me on the flimsy hospital mattress, likely hanging precariously off the edge as I took up most of it.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered beside my ear, his words carried by the Scottish brogue I'd become so intimately familiar with.

His hat was gone, placed, I assumed, on some nearby table. I lifted my hand, running my fingers through his hat flattened curls. It suddenly felt so much easier to breath.

I knew we shouldn't do this, that in the space of hours our world had become dangerous, but I couldn't find it within me to care. I needed the warmth of his body. I needed to know that he had survived, _that we both had, _even if I didn't believe that he was as fine as he led on.

"Where were you?" I asked, the distraction of the words pulling my thoughts away from what could have been.

"Home," he hesitated, his voice sounding nearly shameful. "I'd waited here as long as I could, but I…"

I heard him swallow what words he'd been about to say and knew I didn't need to hear them. I could never blame him. I thought next of his tired voice, the way he'd sounded as he answered my call. It had been soft and slow, confused, almost, like I had pulled him from some distant dream.

"And you slept?" I marveled at the feat I seemed incapable of, that I pushed further and further away because I didn't know what it would bring. But, maybe things were different for him. He was a soldier. I was not. I could never dare to understand the scars the war had left him with or how he chose to cope with them.

But, his answer didn't come. My question was followed, instead, by a stretch of silence. He pulled his gaze away, seeming to want to look at anything but me. I saw his Adam's apple lurch inside his throat. A movement, I knew, was unrelated to the formation of words.

I moved my fingers, running from along the top of his head to the side that wasn't pressed against the pillow. He froze beneath my touch, shifting away as much as he could without falling from the bed entirely.

And I wanted to ask. I could see whatever he had done cut him from the inside, had done so before he ever arrived here. I could see the pain in his eyes that hadn't been there before today — not like this. And I could see the shame, the embarrassment… the _disappointment _that lined his features and I knew I could never say the words.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered, trying to form a smile. But, he shook his head.

"It does."

He said it with such regret that I thought of his wife, reminding myself then that he was still a married man. He'd never even told me her name and now I wondered if that's where he had gone. If when he thought all was lost, _I was lost, _he had fallen back into bed with the woman he deserved to have.

The thought shouldn't have hurt, but somehow I couldn't look at him. What we were, whatever this was between us, had never meant to be anything. It had never been assigned any label other than "immoral" and I suspected, at least at first, we hadn't meant for there to ever be feelings. But, here we were. I was the side piece, the extra in this equation. Beyond these walls he had a home, children, a life I hadn't been privy too. A life _with him _that I suddenly wanted so badly.

"Your wife, what's her name?" I hated myself for asking. I had never wanted to be the bitter mistress.

"I… it's…" he stumbled over the words. And then there was a laugh. A chuckle that didn't stretch much farther than the mattress, but a laugh all the same. I felt embarrassed. "I wasn't with her."

"Oh." Was I supposed to feel relieved?

"I was… an idiot. When you're better I'll explain, but I'm not sure either of us are ready."

I only nodded.

I turned to him again, wondering this time how things between us had grown so complicated, how this nauseating sense of protection had blossomed from just wanting to be fucked until I no longer felt anything else. But, it had, and now the warmth of him beside me felt more comforting than I expected anything else could feel.

"David," I said his name again, the letters of it slow despite the fact that he was looking at me. I just wanted to hear it. He reached out in response, the tips of his fingers teasing along my hairline. He moved, shifting forward until we were only the space of a breath apart. A breath I seemed unable to exhale. I closed the distance between us and found the taste of him sweet, heady.

His fingers stopped, the palm of his hand resting this time on my neck, radiating warmth across my skin as I kissed him. My mouth moved against his, slow, savoring. If I died, if I succumbed to some other attack or the failing of my body, I wanted this moment to last. I wanted to taste him, to feel him against me. I wanted to remember the times we'd been together before beneath the sheets of a hotel bed in a room meant to keep me alone. I wanted as much of him as I could have until I was well enough to have the rest.

"Julia."

It was the only thing he could say, the only exception that made the ending of our kiss okay. I looked at him..

"You need to rest."

I gave in, nodding, knowing that he was right, that if I wanted more time beside him, I needed to heal.

I leaned into his chest, feeling his arm drape around me as I finally allowed the heaviness of sleep to weigh against me. I closed my eyes and there was no orange. There was no fire. There was no collapsing ceiling. There was only him beside me.

When I woke, he was gone.


End file.
